


Cold is the Light

by BurneHazard



Series: WoW Tales [1]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, BDSM, Blood and Gore, Dominance, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Graphic Description, Heavy Angst, Horror, Mind Manipulation, Multi, Necrophilia, Power Play, Psychological Torture, Romance, Rough Sex, Submission, Torture, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 13:46:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7804180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BurneHazard/pseuds/BurneHazard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was all wrong, backwards. He could see how it should have been when his eyes closed. The plain little priest at his feet, hazel eyes wide and lower lip caught between her teeth as she waited his judgement for her childish trespasses.</p><p>Why then, was he kneeling with head bowed before the soft cloth boots and the hem of her robes? As the cold flesh of her hand cupped his jaw and pulled his head up, all he could do was stare into the black voids of what had once been human eyes...and whisper...</p><p>"Master."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold is the Light

**Author's Note:**

> This is a long-overdue story revolving around the characters role-played by my partner and I in World of Warcraft. I have not--as yet--seen the movie so it bears no relation at ALL to it. And while WoW is currently heading into the Leigon Xpac, this is a blast from the past that started in Wrath of the Lich King. I've tried several times to write up short stories for the RP we've had on these characters but this is the first time I've felt the desire to actually condense it all into a firm base.
> 
> There is a necro warning simply due to the fact that both characters are *technically* undead when this story begins. However, I don't know how well I can write necro (if you're into that) so for the most part the actual acts will probably come out more as sex between cold bodies. I'm not big into that scene myself so...yeah, no gross descriptions there.
> 
> Hope you enjoy.
> 
> -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

            The sound of old screams echoed along the corridor. She paid them no mind. It was ambient music, little more. Fresher screams and moans of agony would join them as more souls were ripped from their life and shattered to raise more soldiers to serve the Lich King's cause. One of the spectral wisps drifted past her like a tiny breath on chill air. Turning her head, she gave it a glance. It startled, twisting away as if in agony and flitting toward the ever-present mists near the passage ceilings.

            Snorting, she continued on her way. Soul fragments of that ilk were hardly anything of interest to her. One of the wraiths would likely find it. A few more little wisps of soul ducked into the armor decorating the skeletal guardians lining the corridor. If one did not take that close a look, they might have been taken as just that: armor props. But she sensed the awareness in each one as she passed. Had she not been expected, doubtless the broken blades would have leapt to life to cut her down.

            Her staff was the only thing other than those echoing screams to raise any sound in the corridors. The metal-bound wood clicked with a sharp authority that sent its own echoes bouncing about between the walls. It erased even the soft whisper of her robes and shoes with every step she took. The weapon was just that, lacking any gems or embellishments. Runes and other sigils were carefully burnt into the wood while two thin blades crowned the tip. Although they were curved like folded wings, no wings were ever so viciously serrated. A single round crystal sphere rested at the tip between the blades.

            Like her staff, the rest of her garb was simple in comparison to most other acolytes of magic or mystic ways. She refused to wear anything but the richest of cloth, but it was the dark color of soot too light to be black and too tainted to be charcoal. It was simple and flowing, clinging to her torso and resting snug along either arm while flowing into more of a full skirt that rippled about her legs and feet. No emblems of power adorned her clothing or the hood casting her features into shadow. The embroidery was fine and formed intricate knots.

            As she reached the top of the shallow steps before the chamber she sought, the crystal atop her staff flashed an icy white, crackling with arcs of dark energy. One of the suits of armor lurched and the skeleton wearing it straightened with a dry rattle of old bone and clatter of aged metal. It stepped out of the alcove and she halted to give it plenty of room to move. Lifting her head, she looked up and up toward the giant's broken helm and the hollow eye sockets. Its lower jaw was missing.

            The guard leaned down as if scrutinizing her slight form. When it had its look, it turned and slammed the rusted metal gauntlet against the large doors once, twice, three times. The deafening sound came with yet another echo. A large latch cracked then the doors groaned as their hinges strained to work with oil made into gel from the cold. Stepping forward through the small shower of tiny snow and ice crystals, she paid the guard no mind as it dragged itself back into place. Her interest was the room beyond and the scent of fresh blood and terror.

            "Ah, my Lady. You're early," came an echoing voice from the middle of the room.

            She took only a moment to survey the area, discounting the scattered tools of torture and agony. The chains and cages suspended from the ceiling were likewise passed over as such decor was normal for this particular chamber. Her free hand fell to grasp the fall of her robe and lift it before stepping over a stream of foul liquids she chose not to take too long a look at. Thankfully, the floor of the place was slightly convex, so everything ran toward the walls.

            "Only the fool discounts the summons of the Lich King, Tormalus," she said simply. "Even if it is summons by proxy."

            "That is one thing even I am unpleasantly forced to admit. You are no fool."

            Tormalus turned to face her at last. He was taller than her, but only by a few inches. It was the heavy plates of solid metal that set him apart, combined by the heavy fall of leather and mail forming a mockery of an apron. Blood and gore glistened where it had splattered over the so-called protective cover. More of it dripped from his bared hands as he scrubbed at them with a rotten rag that had been overused for that very purpose without being cleaned or tossed.

            Rather than respond, she simply brought her staff in to rest against her shoulder and gripped it casually with both hands. After a few moments of her silent, intense stare, Tormalus grunted and turned away from the table. She glanced at the pitiful chunk of flesh there. It had been a dwarf once by her guess at the stunted arms and legs and blocky torso. But the sadistic butcher had already cleaved those limbs off and had the legs and one arm of what might have been a troll attached in their places.

            "Another attempt at improving the geists?" she asked before turning her head to follow him.

            "That? That's just entertainment," Tormalus said before laughing. "Does it amuse you?"

            She snorted, "Even if you can get it to work, it's pathetic. No purpose."

            His laugh faded. She did not care. Then he made the mistake of glaring at her. When his eyes met her own, there was a split second where the air went still. Nothing seemed able to move. Even the blood that had just dripped from the table froze in mid-air rather than be of attention. Unbidden, she felt her power rise as her eyes narrowed and shadow trembled around her. Tormalus jerked his head away just before his icy blue eyes paled with madness. Anger made them burn as he threw the gore-choked rag at an empty cage.

            "Nevermind, witch!" he spat.

            "With respect due the master, and the fact my time is primarily reserved for a workload peons cannot perform properly, can we bypass these empty words and get to the reason I was summoned?" she asked in a flat tone.

            It was easy to guess that the growling mumble that emerged in primary response was nothing kind or respectful. Tormalus managed to bite his tongue on such things as he ripped the apron off to toss aside. When he turned back to her, he was in full command mode. She straightened to her full height and let her arm drop to her side to face him with due respect for his rank amongst the Scourge. He did not attempt to meet her eyes again.

            "That work is the reason you were called here. The Lich King has chosen to reward you for your service in bringing the coven of your former peers into the Scourge. He bade me present you with a special gift recently retrieved, and remind you that continued obedience and service will bring more of the same." Tormalus managed, even if there was bitterness in his tone.

            "But remember, failure...will place you on _my_ table, Lady Darklighter," he finished with a grin.

            Her own face remained impassive as she listened. Cool, composed, perhaps even bored, no emotion was revealed. And it made Tormalus' amusement bleed back into anger. He turned to wave a hand at one of the skeletal ghouls that milled about the pile of spare body parts. One lurched forward, flailing its way over to multiple levers on the wall. It hit two, causing chains to rattle noisily, but thankfully only one of the overhead cages dropped.

            Jaw clenching against the deafening noise assaulting her ears, she remained in place to watch. Not that much could be seen when the cage landed with a crash. Tormalus was blocking her sight of whatever poor thing rested within. A glimpse of red on peach--blood on flesh. Sky blue stained with foul black and brown. Then the hulking figure turned, jerking the thing free and into her line of sight. Nothing happened until he spun the person around to face her--and her eyes widened in surprise.

            "Arthas was very explicit in his orders. It hasn't been touched since it was brought in--other than a little roughed up when it tried to escape."

            It was an elf. A living, breathing elf. The golden hair was matted with blood and viscera, the lightly tanned skin pale from the cold. Whatever armor it had worn had been stripped away to leave it nothing but torn rags in blue and white. Blood oozed from several fresh scratches and cuts but none of them were overly serious. From the angle of the shoulder, it was dislocated and one of the legs appeared to be mauled, perhaps even broken. Bruises were a sickly green and yellow over the exposed form with fresher purplish black ones over its torso and face.

            What struck her the most was that face. Even swollen and bruised with the first hollows of starvation forming, she recognized it. Recognized it--him. And she remembered. Memories that flooded her so suddenly her mind drown in them. Places, names, events, years of life suddenly returning. But with it came a familiar voice intruding into her mind and pushing her thoughts aside so she could not ignore it.

            _**As we agreed, Lady Darklighter. You delivered your end of the bargain, so I give you mine. Continue to serve me and I will ensure that you want for nothing!**_ Arthas' voice thundered in her mind.

            Unable to gather her thoughts in the aftermath of another large piece of her soul being returned to her, she merely closed her eyes and bowed her head. There was only one answer to give for such a gift. "As you command, Lord Arthas."

            His presence retreated, pleased. As she felt herself draw a deep breath in, she straightened. This time she needed to lean on her staff to maintain her balance and stand firm. Not that it mattered. Tormalus was on his knees before her, swaying as if dazed. The ghouls in the room were virtually prostrate where they had fallen, arms outstretched toward her. Everywhere in the room, shadows twisted and writhed like fire. The spectral ribbons that barely misted the chamber ceiling were spiraling over her head.

            Then she heard cloth rustling and realized that her robes were swaying on an unfelt wind. As she took it all in, she felt her lungs expanding further. But, she did not breathe. It took her a moment to remember this particular sensation. Power. Raw, pulsing power. Not the bright, blinding, cold power of the light and the teachings she had been permitted to follow in life. This was dark, heated, fulfilling. It was the power always tramped down and forbidden at last unleashed. Her power. And she had to glance down to ensure her feet remained on the floor as she drew it back within her being.

            When she looked back to the kneeling figure, she glimpsed a hint of something never before seen in the glowing eyes. Tormalus...was afraid. He banished it swiftly but she knew what she had seen there. She did not press the matter. Anger helped him resume his control as he lurched back to his feet and kicked the weakly moving elf forward. The grunt when his face met the stone near her boots was pathetic. His back was a mess of raw flesh and muscle barely tended by bandages held to the wounds by clotted blood.

            "Now get out of my workplace, witch," Tormalus spat as he turned away.

            "Thank you, Tormalus. As always, your hospitality is endearing."

            It was a petty barb to be certain. But with such a heady rush, her amusement made it into an insult. Not that the butcher turned back. He just began to pulverize the meat chunks on the table. Although she had thought the dwarf dead, the gurgling screams told otherwise. She tuned that noise out in favor of another. One that she had been hearing for weeks--months--but only now did she realize it. The sound was a heartbeat. And it came from the elf.

            Sinking down, she kept her staff gripped loosely in hand. The other hand moved out slowly to slide under the face pressed against the stone floor. A gentle pressure brought a moan. Another coaxed the elf to lift his head, although she had to cup his chin to help him bring it up where she could glimpse his eyes. One was swollen shut. The other was glazed and unfocused. It was safe from her own eyes then as she cradled his jaw so tenderly.

            "Shhh, there you are. Easy now, pretty one," she found herself cooing softly. "It's all right. You can let it go."

            Even though he had to know it was a trick, that the tenderness and softness was all part of the torture he had to endure, his body was too abused to let his mind maintain its resistance. It was certainly the softest touch he would have received since his capture. And such a soothing voice and reassuring words worked their cruel magic as trembling muscle sagged and the glazed eye drooped closed. The weight of his head increased, rubbing his cheek against her clothed palm.

            "That's it. Sleep. Sleep..." she murmured almost softly as shadows writhed over her form. "...because when you wake, it will be just you...and me, my dearest Dakielivanth."

            He never heard the venom in her voice searing his name with long-repressed hatred. Her lips twisted into a grin as the warmth from his tear soaked into her glove, burning the heel of her hand.


End file.
